Tom Morton's Beatcroft

Wednesday, 27 June 2018

My 24 Hours with Herr Rottweiler

I was soaked. Drenched in a now-dried drool of a highly Germanic nature. And with a somewhat more pungent aroma than I am used to. What's more I have been forced to draw on my usually-disguised super Staffiepowers and I am drained, drained I tell you. In addition to being drained upon, if you will.

There was, briefly, a dog in the manger, or the house, in addition to I, Zetdogg, intellectual giant and guardian of all that is culturally good in the canine world of Zetlandica. I ask you, did I deserve it? After almost six weeks of gruelling exposure to urban blight, Glaswegian hipster beards and the accompanying, indeed compulsory French Bulldogs and Pugs, I arrived back in the Zetlandics with relief only to find I was expected to share Ramnavine with another creature. And I do not mean the New Doctor Morton, who has accompanied her parents and myself from the Soothlands of Doom and Crafty Beer.

This over-large, goofily affectionate and excessively bouncy thing was called Arnie (clearly, I'd prefer to keep affairs on more formal, 'Arnold' level, or indeed Herr Rottweiler) and initially I surmised that he was merely visiting. Then it became apparent (though clearly, communication was difficult, due to his continental origins) that it was intended for him to reside in Ramnavine semi-permanently.

Herr Rottweiler was the size of a small horse, like the St Bernards I used to share companions and space with, but much more...ebullient. Clearly, it was essential to dictate terms to him, show him that he was merely a guest, hopefully temporary, and that this was my territory. So some skirmishing ensued. He seemed puzzled by my admittedly diminutive aggression. As half-bear, half-pony, he was much, much larger and heavier than I, but as I say, the Zetdogg superpowers of Staffiedom could be drawn on, and I was able to escape without serious injury or at least having my head crushed to a messy pulp. And inflict a few smarting pieces of sneaky punishment on the giant hulking beast.

Alas, the new Dr Morton became enmeshed in one such encounter, injuring her foot, and the result, not entirely surprisingly, is that Herr Rottweiler has now departed for a place known in Zetlandica as Not Ramnavine. His previous abode, in fact. And I, for once in my life, am submitting without objection to the ordeal known as a bath. With relief.

Having said that, the house is rather quiet and I am in receipt of some reproachful glances from my Main Human Companion, as yes, I admit, it was I, Zetdogg, who provoked the aforementioned skirmishing. Guilty? Yes, a little. He was - is - a cheerful soul, Herr Rottweiler, and I'm sure he will find a good home. Where I, Zetdogg, am not.